


In the morning

by NikaAnuk



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Mosaic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-13
Updated: 2013-03-13
Packaged: 2017-12-05 04:46:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/719031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NikaAnuk/pseuds/NikaAnuk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Short mosaic about waking up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the morning

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for my dear Chip for beta!

John used to wake up as he was taught in the army.   
Back then, when he lived alone, he heard the alarm; he opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling for some time, immersed in silence. He would toy with the thought of staying in bed a bit longer, fooling himself that he had plans for the day that he could put aside.   
Back then he always woke up to an empty room and spent his day wondering why he did get up from the bed when there was nothing waiting for him outside. And his life was miserable.   
Now when he was waking up he could occasionally lie down, wondering why the flat was so silent. Did Sherlock go out? Or was occupied with some experiment? Was he lying dead? Or maybe was it one of the few days when Sherlock's body decided that this is the best moment to sleep? Whatever the reason, he would get up and walk downstairs - fully dressed, because one could never know who would be sitting in the living room - finding the flat empty or Sherlock lying on the couch: sleeping or just busy with thinking.  
Most of the time, Sherlock was the one who woke him up. With some experiment, text, or a simple 'John!' shouted at him while he was still asleep. And somehow that was a good way to start the day; no matter how annoyed John would act and how long he would complain, he was glad that there was someone who could wake him up. He would never agree to go back to what he had before. 

Mycroft's days started long before the sun.  
First in his bedroom, then in the shower, Mycroft would think about things of lesser matter, like the banquet or dinner with PM. After he dressed up - yet without a jacket - and sat down in the kitchen full of white, unhealthy light, he could start his day. Study his schedule, write few e-mails, read the first newspaper.   
Mycroft was rarely alone in the morning; there wasn't anyone who he would share his flat with. But there was Timothy leaving him clothes and his PA waiting for him in the kitchen where they ate breakfast - him had his coffee. She never ate with him - excluding business dinners - and talk about the day. Mycroft's days were planned since the very beginning. Maybe that was the reason why he could never live with anyone; to share schedules seemed dreadful to him. 

Sherlock never really noticed mornings.   
He would sometimes keep himself occupied with work, mostly because the dawn was the best part of a day; it was the moment when everyone - with the occasional exception of John - were asleep, even Mycroft. Most mornings Sherlock would just sit in his armchair, letting his thoughts wander around various subjects.  
The only sound - the sound of slapped door outside then quick steps – was made by Susan, the student living next door, who was late as usual. Sherlock shut his eyes and let himself drown into the silence. It was the one moment in the day when he felt silence, when he welcomed it, when he needed it. When everything stopped, when he could stop himself for a moment.   
Watching as the sun lights up the windows on the opposite building, feeling the dawn's cold leaving the flat, starting to hear the sounds again, Sherlock welcomed the new day.  
Sometimes he would go to John's room and look at him to join the sound of silence and the view of John's calm face. Sometimes he could fall asleep on the couch when his vision started to blur, when he started to hear small noises echo. And then sometimes he woke up covered with a blanket and for a moment he wouldn't know what happened. But once it became obvious, there was nothing more to say. 

Gregory Lestrade had really bad habits.  
The day started with the hum and the pain in his neck. He lifted his head and blinked, not quite aware of where he was. The familiarity of his desk made him sigh. The office again; he really shouldn't work that late. The day had already started. Sally brought him his coffee already, and there was also a new report. Lestrade straightened and growled. Bloody hell, he was too old for that!   
Sally came back with a sandwich and another report and he thanked her with a smile.   
“You should go home and take a shower.” She said to him.  
Greg nodded.   
“I know, I'll do after the first report.” They laughed. After the first one, there was always the second one, and then a hundreds things later. He'll never have time for that.   
Greg used to wake up slowly; he liked to look at his wife, enjoying the silent moment when he wasn't called to work. He would spend ten, sometimes twenty minutes, caressing her face lightly, her bare shoulders, the curve of her neck. And when she woke up they could talk, or just simply kiss, and then he would take a shower as she headed to the kitchen to make coffee and breakfast. Those were pretty good times. Greg often missed it, but he never had enough power to fix it. Tired because of work, he just let his relationship slip through his fingers. He almost didn't care any more. Now he wakes up in his office more often - on the couch, if he was lucky - or with his head on his desk.


End file.
